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THE 


Ull  of  iShicaqo, 


Authoress  of  "The  Whited  Sepulchre,"  Etc. 


THIRD  EDITION. 


CHICAGO,     OCTOBER, 
1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871.  hy 

Mrs.  SOPHIA  B.  OLSEN, 
In  the  Olfice  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


^<^^ 


THE  FALL  OF  CHIGAGO. 


A  voice  is  ringing  in  the  air, 
A  tale  is  trembling  on  the  wire, 
The  people  shout  in  wild  despair: 
"Chicago  is  on  fire  !  " 

From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 
That  cry  is  borne  by  rushing  crowds — 
Behold  our  beauteous  city  di^essed 
In  smoke  and  fiery  shrouds ! 

Our  noble  firemen  flee  from  homes 
To  battle  the  contending  foe, 
'Mid  wreaths  of  smoke  and  tottering  domes 
And  faces  blank  with  woe. 

With  straining  arm  and  dauntless  eye 
To  quench  those  fierce  and  raging  fires 
With  more  than  mortal  energy ; 
While  back  the  crowd  retires. 

'Tis  vain  !  these  efforts  all  are  lost; 
For  now  the  water  sources  fail, 
While  the  mad  flames,  in  fury  tdssed 
By  the  terrific  gale, 

Proclaim:     "  Now,  I  am  king  !     Submit! 
'Tis  folly  to  resist  my  sway; 
I  tread  your  glories  'neath  my  feet; 
I  triumph  here  to-day  !" 

Ah  !  then  and  there  the  people  flee 
In  furious  haste  their  lives  to  save. 
Yet  hundreds  find  eternity 

In  one  vast,  swelt'ring  gi-ave. 


The  frantic  mother's  tearless  eye 
Seeketh  in  vain  her  children  dear. 
And  fathers,  pale  with'  agony, 
Shiver  with  mortal  fear. 

And  friends  and  lovers  linger  'round, 

But  vainly  there  with  stifled  breath, 

Hoping  some  dear  one  may  be  found 

Near  that  sad  field  of  death. 

The  surging  crowds  by  thousands  press 
On,  onward  towards  that  sea  of  fire, 
Shrieking  in  tones  of  wild  distress, 
Then  hence  again  retire. 

The  world  of  flames  in  fury  rise, 
Mounting,  by  fierce  tornadoes  driven, 
Still  higher,  reaching  to  the  skies, 
And  hide  the  stars  of  heaven. 

The  withered  earth  is  scorched  and  dry; 
The  heavens  are  brass;  in  burning  pain 
Men  upward  cast  the  straining  eye 

And  pray  for  Rain  !  Rain ! !  Rain  ! ! ! 

Chicago  lives  but  on  a  cloud 
Suspended  between  earth  and  heaven; 
All,  rich  asid  poor,  humble  and  proud, 
With  agony  are  riven. 

Has  God  in  vengeance  veiled  his  face, 
And  left  us  as  our  fatal  doom — 
Because  we  have  abused  his  grace — 
This  fearful,  fiery  tomb? 

See  how  the  fire  "fiend  rushes  on 
All  heedless  of  a  people's  woe, 
\Mio  moum  their  cherished  treasures  gone 
In  smould'ring  ashes  low. 


Listen  !  what  means  that  fearful  sound  ? 
"The  Court  House  is  on  fire  !"     Its  bell 
Has  rung  out  its  last  chime  around 
The  awful  tale  to  tell. 

The  prisoner  in  his  gloomy  cell 
Of  shame  and  sorrow,  guilt  and  woe, 
Leanis  in  this  awful  hour  too  well 
The  fruits  of  crime  to  know. 

A  hundred  voices  from  the  cell 
Yell  from  their  Iron-grated  door: 
"We  perish  in  these  flames  of  hell ! 
Save,  save  us,  we  implore  ! ' ' 

And  some  are  freed,  some  die  in  fire. 
And  find  their  graves  and  coffins  there; 
Amid  those  burning  embers  dire, 

They  gasp  out  life's  last  prayer. 

Hark.!  yet  another  thrilling  sound 
Shrieks  madly  thyough  the  fevered  air. 
The  cupola  has  fallen  !     The  ground 
Echoes  the  wild  despair. 

The  votaries  mad  of  Fashion  now. 
Who  dared  to  waste  life's  precious  hours 
In  guilty  idleness,  must  bow 

To  these  all-conquering  powers. 

The  house  of  her  whose  gate  is  hell. 
Like  others,  in  blank  ruin  lies. 
Where  once  tolled  Virtue's  funeral  knell, 
Now  scorching  flames  arise. 

Her  luring  voice  is  hushed  in  death, 
Forever  closed  her  wanton  eyes. 
She's  breathed  out  her  last  poison  breath. 
And  spoken  her  last  lies. 


The  wine  cup  sparkles  here  no  more; 
Its  rivers  to  that  sea  of  fire 
Have  added  their  own  flaming  store 
To  send  it  blazing  higher. 

And  the  poor  drunkard  hence  must  call 
On  other  aids  to  quench  his  thii-st ; 
With  baser  liquor  sellers,  all 
Together  doubly  cursed. 

The  marble  palace,  splendid  hall. 
Hotel,  bank,  store,  and  princely  dome. 
In  undistinguished  ruin  fall, 

And  find  one  common  home. 

The  gathered  stores  of  art  refined, 
Transported  o'er  the  ocean  wave. 
The  treasured  wealth  of  cultured  mind 
Mingle  in  one  sad  grave. 

Vast  libraries  and  pictures  here, 
Paintings  and  statuary,  all, 
Ancient  and  new,  soon  disappear 
'Neath  one  vast  funeral  pall. 

Our  Press — that  wondrous  power  of  yore- 
Proclaims:  "  My  errands  here  are  done; 
I  battle  for  the  right  no  more. 

Nor  wrong;  My  race  is  run." 

Its  leaden  types  are  melted  how. 
Amid  those  fierce,  contending  tides. 
Pale  Desolation  on  its  brow 
Silent  and  sad  presides. 

Not  one  remains  to  tell  the  tale; 
To  spread  the  gloomy  tidings  'round; 
And  bear  with  sad  and  solemn  wail, 
The  melancholy  sound. 


O!  weep,  thou  city  of  the  dead ! 
O!  wail,  thou  city  of  the  past ! 
The  crown  is  fallen  from  thy  head 
And  thou  art  doomed  at  last. 

Our  city,  once  "Pride  of  the  West," 
And  wonder  of  the  nations  far, 
The  richest,  brightest,  loveliest,  l^est. 
Now,  like  a  fallen  star. 

Lies  low,  in  ashes  doomed  to  weep. 
Around  its  fierce  and  fieiy  bed 
A  thousand  hearts  their  vigils  keep 
O'er  the  retumless  dead. 

The  splendors  of  our  golden  age. 
In  unforgotten  beauty  dressed. 
Vanish  ere  Autumn's  ling'ring  page, 
The  "Rainbow  of  the  West." 

One  mom  the  man  of  thousands  gave 
His  last  look  o'er  his  hoarded  pelf; 
The  next,  his  meanest,  poorest  slave 
Rose  richer  than  himself. 

The  wings  of  riches  swiftly  flew, 

In  fiery  gulfs  to  end  their  flight; 

And  many  a  mad  ambition,  too. 

Sank  in  eternal  night. 

But  yesterday  the  millionaire 
Could  scorn  to  feel  a  brother's  sorrow; 
To-day  he  wears  a  brow  of  care, 
And  wails  a  sadder  morrow. 

With  tearful  eye  each  passer  by 
Reads  MENE  written  on  thy  brow; 
And  in  that  bright  and  lurid  sky 
Beholds  thy  ruins  now. 


What  need  have  we  of  preaching  now  ? 
Look  on  that  pile  and  there  behold  ! 
Lessons  stare  from  its  ashen  brow 
Pulpits  have  never  told. 

The  fallacy  of  selfish  aims, 
The  madness  of  a  wasted  life, 
The  guilt  of  idleness,  the  claims 
Of  misery  in  the  strife. 

But  shall  we  sit  and  idly  rave, 
Cry:  "Woe  is  me,  I  am  undone  ?" 
Shall  aspiration  find  its  grave  ? 
Nay !  let  us  rouse,  each  one. 

These  lessons  urge  us  on  to  move. 
To  battle  still  the  ills  of  life. 
Our  perseverance  yet  may  prove 
Us  victors  in  the  strife. 

We'll  gird  our  armour  on  anew. 
Life  still  hath  plenty,  hope,  and  joy 
For  all  who  to  each  duty  true, 

Bravely  life's  powers  employ. 

Let  Industry  our  watchword  be, 
And  Honesty  our  polar  star, 
And  God  our  guide,  and  then  .shall  we 
Find  riches  from  afar. 

And  higher  treasures  still  above. 
Which  fire  and  flames  cannot  destroy, 
Treasures  of  peace,  of  home,  of  love. 
Of  pure,  immortal  joy. 

In  future  time  there  will  be  read. 

From  some  celestial  post  of  view: 

"Chicago's  burst  her  ashy  bed; 

Chicago's  born  anew." 


PS 


